


table for one

by tanyart



Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Costume Kink, Frenemies with Benefits, M/M, Maid Costume
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-08
Updated: 2018-10-08
Packaged: 2019-07-28 06:35:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16236173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tanyart/pseuds/tanyart
Summary: Drifter sets up dinner and a show for his favorite customer.





	table for one

**Author's Note:**

> Took some prompts over twitter and decided to combine a few; _maid, cooking,_ and _‘use two hands to respect your elders’_.
> 
> Also this is very much based off of fishuus‘s [maid drifter drawings](https://twitter.com/clashingshaders/status/1046557566279577600). God fucking bless.

The fun of finally having a home of sorts is getting to invite people over to a place where you have absolute control over the environment. Lighting, furniture, walls—it never fails to amuse the Drifter. In this case, the Derelict still looks like a flying piece of shit on thrusters but at least the lobby houseplants are finally behaving. The Drifter has to preen a little bit, considering all the junk he’s been hoarding over the last couple of centuries. Some of the stuff’s really come in handy this time around; a single cafe table from a Clovis Bray factory, a plush chair from the Ishtar library on Venus, Outer Rim dishware made from dark matter glass that makes his Ghost jabber in unknown frequencies. It’s exotic interior designing at its finest.

But for all of the Drifter’s travels beyond the solar system, sometimes you really can’t beat an Earth-made, Pre-Golden Age vintage maid costume.

Drifter makes one last turn on his platform, heels echoing with each step. Table’s set, food’s ready. He gives a tug on his front laces and fluffs up his skirt.

Then he invites his guest.

The Renegade transmats onto the Derelict’s empty lobby with his usual fanfare of killjoy solemnity.

The ensuing silence tells Drifter that his preparations have been as well received as he had hoped it would be. Renegade’s helmet turns from the Drifter in the maid dress to the platform’s private dining set-up. He then looks down at the triangular zone at his feet and starts stomping on it, probably to reactivate the transmat.

“It’s like we can’t ever have a normal meeting,” Renegade mutters, still stomping.

“Aw hey, don’t be like that,” Drifter says, sweeping half the dishes off the table—it’s all for show anyhow. The Renegade hardly ever eats anything the Drifter offers. Not since the tepid yogurt drink made from Hive gut flora.

The dishes crash onto the floor, making the Renegade to look back up. This gives Drifter the fresh opportunity to plant himself onto of the table, sit back in his fluffy pile of skirt, and rest one stilettoed foot over the cushion of the chair, legs widening enough to show off the frilled garter belt around one upper thigh.

The Renegade’s expression is unreadable. It always is, with that helmet, but that’s part of the charm. Drifter enjoys guessing what the Renegade will do next, because sometimes it’s not always clear. A gun to the head or a dick in the ass is usually a good bet. The Drifter’s always been a sucker for a dangerous gamble.

The Renegade pulls out his gun, gold-spun metal in his hand.

“Oh alrighty, quickdraw,” Drifter says, huffing. He’s not that surprised by the outcome. “Just don’t ruin the stockings. And for fuck’s sake, show some respect to your elders. If you’re gonna shoot me, at least use both hands—”

And that’s about as far as he gets before a golden bullet meets him between the eyes. Great shot, that Renegade.

The last thing Drifter sees is the shithead using one goddamn hand like an ingrate. The other free hand is flipping Drifter the bird.

Then Drifter dies and it’s lights out for a good long while.

 

* * *

 

A long while later, the Drifter resurrects back on the table, dropping on his feet. He wobbles, forgetting the stilettos for a moment. He quickly regains his balance. Thank the Darkness, the stockings make it through unharmed.

“Nice panties,” says the Renegade, now sitting on the cushioned chair and looking up at him.

There’s certainly a view for it. The Drifter readjusts his dress, not out of modesty, Hell no, but to give the Renegade a better peek under it. Drifter can always appreciate a resurrection from a pal. Besides, it’d be a shame not to flaunt the ribbon lacing down the sides of his lingerie.

“Real silk, you know,” Drifter replies, glancing down. Huh.The few dishes he hadn’t swept off the table have been polished off. Maybe the Renegade’s got a taste for Vex custard cake. Not that he’s going to mention it now—Drifter might be passionate about his food, but he’s also pretty damned passionate about getting some action.

And judging from the Renegade’s relaxed position in the chair and the way his gaze holds steady, the Drifter’s real close to getting it.

“Got ‘em off Lady Olu,” he goes on, lifting one foot. He places it over Renegade’s chest, the point of the high heel tapping over the armor. To his delight, the Renegade reaches over to rest one wrist over the edge of the table, helmet tilting upwards. Looking ready to order. The Drifter smirks. “And now you can get ‘em off me too.”

The slight rise in the Renegade’s chest gives away his breathing. The Drifter can feel it under his foot—a light shiver, a slow exhale.

“Sit,” the Renegade says, tapping two fingers on the table. There’s a lazy, arrogant quality to his posture that makes the Drifter hungry all of a sudden.

Drifter sits, but not before pressing a cheeky foot between the Renegade’s legs. He’s not put out by the lack of noise this elicits. Renegade’s packing, alright, immediately moving his hips to rub himself beneath Drifter’s foot. Poor guy must have cut off all audio output his helmet to keep quiet.

“Alright, friend. Unmute yourself for a sec,” Drifter says, stopping. He drops his foot off the Renegade, letting his legs dangle off the table. Cards down, all chips are in. “So what’ll be your pleasure today?”

The Renegade’s voice crackles through his helmet, sounding like he’s in the middle of taking a breath. His hands make their way over the Drifter’s thighs, fingers slipping beneath the garter belts on each side. “Food’s shit.”

“Now that ain’t a nice thing to say. Cooked it myself.”

“You knocked half of it to the floor.” The Renegade lifts his fingers, stretching the garters until they slip free and snap back over the Drifter’s thighs.

“Waste of good food,” Drifter admits, leaning back on his palms. Damn, that’s a well-deserved sting. His maid skirt’s sporting a tent now, and Renegade’s looking right at it.

“Might be that I’m still hungry,” the Renegade says, low.

Shit, and as fun as it is, aggravating a good fuck out of the Renegade, it makes it that much sweeter when he ends up playing along. Hearing the Renegade sound horny like hell shoots all the blood straight to Drifter’s dick.

The petticoat gives a small rustle as Drifter pinches two ends of his skirt and lifts. “You’re in luck, partner. Got the house special right here—”

There’s a disgruntled groan from the Renegade, but for all the noise, the man does slide down quick from his chair to duck beneath the skirt. Drifter barely hears the static of Renegade’s helmet transmatting off before he feels Renegade’s mouth through the front of his silk panties. Drifter pitches forward, moaning.

Great fabric, silk. Soft. Thin. Lets you feel the wetness of someone’s tongue on you. He’ll have to bet some more off Lady Olu.

The Renegade makes an impatient noise, muffled from the cloth. He tugs at the decorative lacings with his teeth, and Drifter takes this as a suggestion to prop his hands on the table, lift his hips, and let the Renegade slide the underwear down enough to pop Drifter’s aching dick out from its delicate lacy holdings.

Drifter almost loses his mind, hearing the Renegade moan around his dick. Unfiltered, no muting, no volume adjustment; music to his ears. It isn’t often that the Renegade goes without his helmet, and maybe it’s the rarity of it or the fact that Drifter’s been secretly jerking off to the mystery of Renegade’s ugly mug, but that mouth feels beyond incredible.

Speaking of mysteries, there’s a lot of movement going on under the dress. Can’t fault a man for wanting his privacy, but Drifter finds himself wishing to see Renegade with his mouth full, tongue making eager rounds around his shaft. He feels every little shift the Renegade makes behind the curtain of his dress. The Drifter grips at Renegade’s head through the cloth, catches at some hair, and makes a pleased growl from the hard scratch of it at his thighs. Feels like Renegade’s also got a five o’clock shadow going on. Nice.

Another dip from Renegade’s head gets Drifter spitting out obscenities, wanting more of it. Drifter’s done sitting pretty now. He wraps his legs over the Renegade’s shoulders, heels digging into his back, and gets that leverage to start really fucking into Renegade’s hungry mouth.

“Fuck, yes,” Drifter breathes, fervent.

The Renegade’s grip around his thighs becomes tight, fingers digging into his skin, tangling with the garters. There’s an answering groan, vibration resonating through the Drifter’s dick. Drifter shudders, legs tensing.

His hands clutching at the Renegade’s head slips a bit, dress riding up to reveal the bare nape of the Renegade’s neck. There’s a wayward tuft of black hair, disheveled, skin flushed with sweat. The Drifter blinks, staring, and suddenly he’s curling inward, coming into the Renegade’s mouth with a choked off curse.

He shivers, letting the Renegade lick him clean before flopping back with a muted crash of silverware. A spoon ends up digging into one shoulder, but that’s only a far off concern. He lifts his head slightly to see a Renegade-shaped lump still under his dress. He squeezes his thighs together, feeling the other man exhale over his damp skin.

“You okay under there, handsome?”

The Renegade grunts. There’s the sound of him spitting, pink tablecloth shifting beneath the Drifter when he probably wipes his mouth over it.

Drifter waits for Renegade to get his helmet back on before sitting up again. The silk panties snagg over the Renegade’s helmet, slipping past his knees before the Renegade frees himself. The Drifter grins. Ah, what he wouldn’t give to let the Renegade walk out of the Derelict with his unmentionables stuck to his head.

The Renegade stands up, a little unsteady. The Drifter takes a peek at the state of affairs on the Renegade’s end, but it’s hard to tell with those pants and collection of belts and knives. He leans back on one hand, letting his dress rustle. It’s telling when the Renegade’s head tilts at the sound.

“You wanting help with that or you come in your pants already?” the Drifter asks, pulling up one leg out of his underwear and letting the panties slip all the way down to his other ankle. He sticks that ankle out like a bait on a line.

The Renegade doesn’t bite. He does stare at it though, hand turning into a fist at his side and shoulders rolling back. Like he’s readying himself for a fight, or going at in internally.

“I’m fine,” he says, voice rough in a way that sounds like he isn’t.

“Oh. So it’s jerk off alone in shame then.” Drifter sighs, dropping his foot. The panties fall to the floor, just a desolate pile of ribbons and lace.

“If that’s what you want to think about to help you sleep,” the Renegade says, turning away.

Damn. Got him there.

“By the way, left you a datapad between your legs. Might want to take a look at it after you’ve cleaned up some,” the Renegade continues, hopping off the platform to return to the transmat zone. Still walking funny, but that’s his choice.

The Drifter lifts his dress. Sure enough, he’s sitting on half a tablet that he’s mistaken for a plate. He picks it up. “Nice. Appreciate it.”

In a rare show of good humor, the Renegade waves a hand. “Gotta head off. Thanks for dinner.”

The Drifter opens up the transmat channels, like a real gentleman, and lets the Renegade disappear in a flash of pixels.

“Thank _you_ ,” he says, letting his voice echo through the empty Derelict. He looks at his ruined table and dishes with pride.

The Drifter waves away the mess, letting them transmat back into the storage part of the ship. Swaps the maid suit for his usual set of duds. Time to open up some Gambit again.

Fucking _great_ , having a house of his own.


End file.
